


Just a Coincidence

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-08 00:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15231594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: Grif is slowly descending into madness when a spaceship lands on the moon.Or, Mark Temple arrives to keep Grif some company.If he doesn't, like. Kill him first.





	1. Mark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RiaTheDreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/gifts).



> Happy VERY VERY late birthday, Ria!! I'm sorry this is so late and that you have to wait for the next chapter, but I hope you like it :)

 Grif stares at the cobalt-blue soldier and they stare back. Grif prays to god this isn't a hallucination, unless it's Church. And if that's the case he hopes it is a vision and that it goes away soon.

“You the only one here?” the soldier finally asks, breaking the silence.

Grif heaves a sigh of relief when it isn’t Church’s voice coming from the helmet.

“Yeah,” Grif says. “Just me and a shit ton of trash.”

The sim trooper swivels his head around to look at the black garbage bags piled around Red Base. Grif would be embarrassed if he could bring himself to care about anything other than the fact that there’s a living, breathing person standing in front of him. Bonus points for not getting shot at for _being a Red_. 

“You must have been stranded for a while, then,” the sim trooper suggests, turning to face Grif once more.

“Don’t flatter me, most of this trash was here before I got stuck here,” Grif snorts. “Only been on my own for about, I dunno, a month?”

“Not too long  but long enough, huh?”

“Amen,” Grif says. This guy gets it.

“Well, when I’m done repairing my ship and recharging it, I can drop you somewhere,” the sim trooper offers. “As long as it’s not too far out of my way. No offense, I just can’t trust this piece of crap ship to go much farther.”

“Dude, anywhere works as long as there’s people,” Grif says. Wait. “And as long as there aren’t any crazy civil wars going on. Real or fake.”

The sim trooper laughs, doesn’t even question the ‘fake’ part of that statement. Maybe he’s been through the dumb Freelancer program too.

“You got it,” the sim trooper says. Then, holding out his hand, he adds, “Mark. Mark Temple.”

Grif raises an eyebrow, remembers Mark can’t see it through his helmet, and takes the outstretched hand.

“Dexter Grif-with-one-f, but no one calls me Dexter,” he says. Only Kai and his mom (and Simmons) ever called him Dex.

“Grif it is then,” Mark says. His voice hitches a bit, like he’s still going through puberty, and Grif is reminded of Simmons when he talked to girls.

God, every-fucking-thing seems to remind him of Simmons. Hopefully having someone to talk to and distract him will help him push that kiss ass to the back of his mind.

 

The first thing Mark does when they enter Red Base is yank his helmet off. And maybe it’s because he hasn’t seen anyone in a month, or maybe it’s because he’s still pissed at Simmons, but Grif finds Mark isn’t as hard on the eyes as he expected.

Grif shakes his head and tells his brain to shut the hell up.

“You’ve sure got a lot of volleyballs,” Mark points out, running his hand through his hair as he takes in the painted balls arranged on the floor.

“Um, yes?” Grif feels his face go hot. He should’ve just taken the guy to Blue Base. The letters and Christmas lights might be easier to explain, and not nearly as pitiful.

In a rare moment of motivation, Grif picks up his pace towards the kitchen. If he pretends it’s no big deal, maybe Mark will too.

“Hey, man,” Mark says, trotting over to catch up with him, “when you’ve been solo as long as I have-- I mean, as long as _we_ have-- you tend to do some interesting things.” He lets out a nervous laugh, and goes on. “Me, for example. I made-- you know those fancy ice sculptures they have at dinner parties?”

Grif nods. He knows _of_ them. It’s not like he’s ever seen one in person.

“Well I made some in the forms of people I used to know,” Mark finishes, grimacing.

“Whatever floats your boat, dude,” Grif says with a shrug. All he can think about is if Mark were Sim-- anyone else, he’d have given them so much shit for the sculpture thing.

Then again. Grif glances over his shoulder at his volleyballs one last time before entering the kitchen. Then again, maybe he would keep his mouth shut.

 

Once’s he’s one hundred percent (okay, more like thirty-five percent, but choose your battles) sure Mark isn’t going to kill him, Grif can’t seem to shut his mouth. 

“You missed the dinosaurs, which you might think sounds badass-- Jurassic Moon, am I right?-- but honestly, I was scared shitless. So was everyone else, though, except Caboose-- you’ll probably never meet the guy but he’s stared down mantis-robot-thingies before and befriended them. Well anyway Caboose made friends with the dinosaurs because that’s what Caboose fucking does, and then Sarge made a robot army, and then they--”

And so on.

Grif’s anxiety spikes whenever he starts babbling. So always. He’s waiting for Mark’s face to go blank, for his eyes to drift, for him to sigh, snap, and tell him to shut the hell up.

But the thing is, he doesn’t.

Mark just sits there, tinkering with his ship, but barely because he’s so engaged in what Grif is saying, like he’s hanging on every word. Like Grif is going to quiz him later, or something. Grif wonders if Mark is genuinely interested or just ecstatic to have another person to talk and listen to.

And so what if sometimes Mark messes up his name and calls him ‘Biff’? It’s not like he’s calling him ‘Private Gruff’, or intentionally spelling his name with two ‘f’s to piss him off. Also, ‘Biff’ is probably more popular than his name, though Grif hasn’t really heard of anyone called ‘Biff’ since _Back to the Future_.

Mark is weird, but so is Grif. He’s just happy to have someone to talk to.

 

A few nights after he arrives on the moon, Mark asks the question Grif’s been dreading to answer: 

“Where did everyone go?” 

They’re huddled around a dingy space heater sharing a beer, one of the last in Red Base.

Grif snatches the bottle up and gulps the rest down, savoring and stretching every drop leading up to when he’ll actually have to say something. Mark raises his eyebrows and watches the amber liquid disappear, a small frown of regret on his face. Grif feels a little guilty, but then he remembers how much he wanted to avoid this conversation and decides he deserved the rest of the beer.

“They all left on some wild fucking goose chase,” Grif finally says. Letting out a belch, he adds, “And I’m tired of chasing dead goddamn geese.”

“ _Dead_ geese?” Mark’s eyebrows furrow.

“Let’s just say it’s a long story, and, oddly enough, one I don’t really feel like telling,” Grif grumbles, setting the empty beer bottle off to the side. “What matters is they left me here-- I mean, partially my choice, my fault, but it’s not like he-- they even tried to change my mind. So.”

Grif rises to his feet, grunting as his knees pop in protest.

“My best friend was killed by a Freelancer,” Mark says.

Grif freezes. Not because he’s chilled by what he just heard, because it’s unsurprising Mark’s pal was fucked over by Freelancer. Whoop-de-do, so were Grif and Simmons and Sarge and literally everyone Grif has ever met. No, Grif stops dead in his tracks because he’s opened up a can of “oversharing hour”. Which is his least favorite hour.

Lowering himself back down onto the floor, Grif holds back a sigh. The least he can do is give Mark the floor after jabbering at him for four days straight.

“I’m sorry, dude,” Grif says. “You wanna talk about it?”

Grif doesn’t even bother praying Mark will say no.

“We were put on different sides, you know,” Mark begins. “Even though we grew up together, went to basic together, fought covvies together. And somehow Freelancer still managed to screw up. Put us in the same canyon.”

Grif thinks about Kai, placed with Blue Team, and shoves down a fresh wave of anger. Yeah, Freelancer and the UNSC don’t have the greatest track record.

“So, of course, we knew right away it was all bullshit,” Mark continues. He’s glaring at his feet, clad in threadbare socks. Grif feels a pang of guilt for not offering him a pair with fewer holes, and he’s about to say something to distract Mark but Mark is talking again.

“We played tag for a while, but then my buddy gets this idea in his head,” he says. He looks up at Grif suddenly, and Grif almost scoots away.

Mark’s eyes have changed. The warm attentiveness that was there only a few minutes ago has vanished. Now his eyes just look wild and dark and angry. A shiver travels down Grif’s spine as he starts to sweat, and he remembers he hardly knows this guy.

“What, uh, what was his idea?” Grif asks. The sooner this conversation is over, the better.

“He had this _bright idea_ that if he got injured in action, they’d send him home on medical leave,” Mark explains. “And he wanted me to do it. Shoot his pinky off, or something.

“Oh, how I laughed at the idea,” Mark sighs. He shoots Grif a grin, who tries to smirk back. “But we thought it was maybe, just maybe, crazy enough to work.”

Mark’s eyes become unfocused then. Distant, like he’s remembering something.

Grif pulls out a bag of marshmallows from the cooler, shoves one in his mouth-- he’s a nervous eater, okay?-- and waits for Mark to finish his flashback.

A few seconds later, Mark shakes his head and exhales. Reaching for a marshmallow, he rolls his eyes.

“Did you--?” Grif starts to ask through a mouthful of fluff, but Mark cuts him off.

“No. Never got the chance.” Mark’s eyebrows knit together, and his face contorts in anger. “Your pal Carolina got him first.”


	2. The Thing

Grif chokes on his marshmallow, pounding his fist against his chest as if it’ll make things better. Mark leans over and smacks Grif on the back.

“You okay?” he asks.

Grif just nods, coughing through anything he may have had to say.

Which is probably a good thing, because the last thing he needs to do right now is speak. For all Mark knows, Grif bit off more than he could chew, and the fit had no relation to him knowing Carolina.

Grif has a sneaking suspicion that if he tells Mark he knows Carolina, only one of them would leave this moon alive. And it… probably wouldn’t be Grif.

“I gotta—go to the—uh—be right back?” Grif manages before springing to his feet and booking it to the bathroom, reaching it in record time.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Grif hisses, pausing every few seconds to hack up more marshmallow.

He shoves his head under the faucet and takes a few gulps of water before plopping down onto the toilet. Resting his head in his hands, Grif tries to think of things in the bathroom he could use to shank this Temple guy with. You know. Just in case he tries to kill Grif.

There’s a tap at the door and Grif jerks, looking up.

“What’s the matter, Grif?” Temple calls through the metal. “Is it something I said?”

“No, it was definitely the marshmallow,” Grif replies. “Wrong tube.”

 “How much longer are you going to be, Grif?” Temple asks. He chuckles, adding, “I need a turn, if you know what I mean.”

“Uh, you might want to go over and use the Blue’s base,” Grif says. “Might be a minute.”

“Come on, don’t make me break the door down. Silly.” Temple isn’t trying too hard to mask the annoyance in his voice, but he adds another hollow laugh for posterity.

“Okay, okay.”

Grif rises to his feet, drumming his fingers on his thighs. Breathing in, he tries to recall the blueprints Sarge drew up after Donut burned down their old bases. Sarge was clear that they were for literally any eyes other than Grif’s—and Blue Team—which only led to Grif seeking them out, so he could memorize them.

Sarge’s ideas made little sense, but he left the actual construction to Lopez, who would have at least made the base less likely to crumble at the slightest breeze, and Simmons, who would’ve made sure the base contained everything Sarge desired. Within reason.

Which means.

Grif reaches behind the toilet, feeling around the wall until his fingers brush against something hard and covered in duct tape. Using his foot, Grif flushes the toilet and pulls at the object taped to the wall in unison to cover up the noise.

Pulling his hand out from behind the toilet, Grif suppresses a cheer.

A pistol. Grif knew he could count on Sarge to adequately stash every single room in the base. There’s probably a flamethrower in the pantry, for god’s sake.

Grif turns the faucet on, letting it run while he works at the walls around the toilet and sink. He finds the button write under the mirror, and grinning, he pushes it with his thumb. There’s a hiss that blends in with the running water as a panel above the toilet opens.

Grif thanks whatever gods might be listening that Sarge was paranoid enough to make secret passageways in Red Base.

Scrambling up to stand on the toilet, Grif hauls himself up and into the hole.

“Grif!” There’s the distinct sound of Temple loading a weapon as he kicks the door. “I don’t have all fucking night!”

“Fuckin’ yikes,” Grif whispers, pulling the panel shut. “Knew something was up with that guy.”

 

Peeling the duct tape off the pistol, Grif presses an ear to the wall. There’s a bang as Temple shoots the panel controlling the door, followed by a pop and a hiss as the door slides open. Grif wonders why Lopez didn’t design the doors to _lock_ when the panels were tampered with—then realizes that would mean Sarge getting trapped in a room every time he got trigger happy.

Thanks again, Sarge.

“God damn it,” Temple yells. “Where the fuck are you, Grif?”

Grif decides it’s probably better to keep his mouth shut and he edges away from the panel and down the tunnel. Lucky for him, motion lights have been installed in the floor, giving him plenty of light as he makes his way towards what he hopes is Sarge’s quarters.

Moving further away from the bathroom also means moving further away from the already dim light, so Grif fumbles around in his pocket for his lighter. His fingers brush against the pack of cigarettes stashed there; he’d gone back to smoking like a chimney the moment Simmons abandoned him on the moon. He’d been saving several cartons for a rainy… something. Hidden them throughout Sarge’s boxes of used shells. Grif didn’t question _why_ Sarge had so many shells, but he did thank him silently for the great hiding spot.

Grif flicks his lighter on. A bright orange flame dances at his fist, illuminating only a few inches in front of him. Clicking his tongue, Grif holds the lighter in front of him and begins to make his way further down the tunnel.

Of course, this tunnel is _not_ made for a Grif-sized individual, and, despite his disadvantage against Temple, he’s glad he’s only in sweatpants and a t-shirt. If he’d been wearing armor, he’d have gotten stuck, and starvation would have done Temple’s job for him.

After a few minutes of squeezing his way down the tunnel, Grif sees something plastered to the wall a few feet ahead of him on his right. When he reaches it, he discovers blueprints that make absolutely no goddamn sense—looks something like plans for a robot made of metal and dinosaur bits. Like cyborgs. Dinoborgs?

“What the hell ever,” Grif mutters. Flinching, he looks around as though Temple’s going to pop around the corner any second. Then he looks back at the blueprints.

On a hunch, Grif pulls the papers off the wall.

“Ha!”

Another door.

 

Sarge’s room is. Well. Sarge’s room.

“ _Jee_ zus,” Grif murmurs.

A plethora of swords, knives, spears, guns, grenades, and other weapons even Grif isn’t sure of cover the walls. Several suits of armor have been piled in the corner of the room, most of them covered in hand-cannons, laser guns, and tasers. It’s a miracle, really, that Sarge hasn’t blown up the base.

On purpose or on accident.

Oh well, that’s a problem for another day. Right now, Sarge has unknowingly supplied Grif with an arsenal to take on an entire planet of Temple’s let alone the one lonely guy sneaking around the base. Sarge has basically saved Grif’s life, something that would make the old man’s blood boil. The thought makes Grif smile.

“All right,” Grif says, putting his hands on his hips and looking up at his options. “How’s about we scare the fucking pants off Mark Temple?”

***

Simmons isn’t sure what he’s looking at— the thing that stomps off the ship behind a terrified Temple defies definition.

It’s a monstrosity of old covenant armor, Mark II armor, what looks like fucking SPARTAN armor, and rusty pieces of metal that probably belonged to several different spacecrafts. There’s a smoking cannon on one arm, a curved blade on the other. The thing holds a shotgun in its right hand and a grenade in its left.

Temple, stripped of his armor, has his hands practically glued to the back of his head. He looks ready to piss himself, and Simmons doesn’t blame him, being halfway as well.

“I know that armor,” Sarge growls from behind him.

Simmons pivots around to ask him how the hell Sarge knows that poor excuse for _armor_ , but he’s interrupted by Temple’s voice, three octaves higher than normal.

“I have something I want to say,” he tries to yell.

“What?” Tucker yells. “Speak up!”

“I have something. I want. To say,” Temple repeats, louder this time but not by much.

“Oh, oh, is he going to tell us where Agent Washington and Carolina have hidden?” Caboose says. “I have been looking for three days, and I cannot find them. They’re very good.”

“Shut up!” Simmons shouts.

“Hey, fuck you!” Tucker snaps. “I agree with Caboose, I want to know where Wash and Carolina are.”

“Maybe,” Simmons says, “if you all shut up, Temple might tell us!”

“Jesus Christ, will you just listen?” Temple shrieks.

“I’m only interested in listening if you are going to tell me where Agent Washington and Carolina are,” Caboose says.

“Hate to say I agree with a Blue,” Sarge says. “So I _won’t_.”

“I just want to say that I’m dumb and I’m a wimpy little dirtbag and I keep Freelancers in a freezer because I have a weird frozen food fetish!” Temple shouts.

Not one word Temple just said makes any sense. Freelancers in a freezer? Simmons gapes at Temple, and for once the others have nothing to say. Then, eyes darting up at the Thing, Simmons notices its shoulders shaking, as if its laughing. A few seconds later, its doubled over in very raucous, very familiar laughter.

“Grif?!” Simmons takes a step forward but freezes. Maybe it’s Grif. Maybe it’s a trap.

“What the fuck is going on?” Tucker says. He pops up in Simmons’s periphery as he moves towards the Thing, Caboose in tow.

“Your—oh my god—your fucking _faces_!” the Thing—no, definitely Grif—cackles.

Simmons feels his face go hot, and as everyone around him erupts into unintelligible shouts and questions, his heart does its best to climb out of his throat.

Grif. Grif is back.

Simmons wants to run towards him and hug him. Or, try to hug him. The armor Grif is wearing might kill him on contact. He can’t wait to tell Grif everything that’s happened, about how Sarge is even more insane, about how annoying Gene is, about—

How about that one time he abandoned Grif on a whole ass moon? How about that?

Simmons’s joy evaporates into a mixture of guilt and sheer terror. He can’t blame Grif if he’s angry, but now the guy’s more decked out than Iron Man and much, much stronger.

If Grif ever wanted to kill him, now would be perfect.

Simmons shakes his head, frozen in place as everyone else surges forward. The Blues grab Temple, drag him off somewhere, probably toward wherever he’s trapped Agent Washington and Carolina. Hopefully they aren’t dismembered and shoved in an actual freezer, but Simmons has always had the vibe Temple wouldn’t be above that. The Reds make a beeline for Grif, Sarge in the lead.

“Grif! Put down that shotgun you insubordinate—”

Simmons finally wills his feet to move, and as he gets closer, Grif reaches up and tugs his ugly-ass helmet off. He grins at Simmons, and with every step Simmons wills himself to calm down.

Sarge yanks the shotgun from Grif’s grip and takes off after Temple and Blue Team.

“ _Suspiro_ ,” Lopez drones before stomping off after Sarge.

“Don’t you _dare_ start the party without me!” Donut chirps, and soon he’s disappeared as well.

Leaving Simmons alone with Grif far before he planned on it.

_Don’t say something stupid, Simmons, don’t say something stu—_

“About time, Grif,” Simmons says.

_Idiot._

“Yeah, well, had to wait for my taxi, and you know how unpredictable intergalactic traffic can be,” Grif retorts.

Simmons chuckles, wringing his hands and looks down at the fish swimming below the glass he’s standing on. God, what he would give to be a fish. Life would be much simpler. He wouldn’t have left his fish boyfriend on the fish moon. Because fish don’t have moons to leave their fish boyfriends on.

Grif raises an eyebrow and glances over Simmons’s shoulder at the retreating Reds.

“Should we go after them?” he asks, nodding in their direction.

“I guess.” Simmons hates this—the obvious tension and the way Grif is too good at pretending he doesn’t _feel it_.

“Here.” Grif shoves a pistol into Simmons’s hands and brushes by him. “Just in case.”

“Yeah,” Simmons says. Looking down at the gun, he turns around and calls out, “Grif!”

“Yeah?” Grif asks, stopping to look over his shoulder at Simmons.

“I’m sorry I left you on the moon!” Simmons shouts. He doesn’t need to. Grif is only like, ten feet away, but the only volume Simmons can bring his voice to is a mid-range shriek.

“Hey, I’m here now,” Grif replies. “We’ve got plenty of time for this sappy stuff _after_ we make sure Sarge doesn’t blow a hole in the base and drown us all.”

“Yeah,” Simmons says, pulling the hammer on the pistol back. He grins. “That wouldn’t be ideal.”

And they take off for whatever the fuck the Freelancer freezer is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you thank you, RiaTheDreamer, for your patience! I hope you enjoyed the rest of your birthday gift!!


End file.
